It feels like I’ve been waiting a lot.

Waiting for the rain to stop…
Waiting for the wi-fi to reconnect…
Waiting for the printer to print…
… for a reply…
… for time to pass…
… clothes to dry…
… the water to boil…
… the other shoe to drop…
… someone to notice…

clocks
Image of Salvador Dali’s “Persistence of Memory”

I read somewhere that the average person spends  about 6 months of their entire lifetime waiting in lines and traffic. 6 MONTHS?! And that doesn’t even begin to account for all the billions of other tedious wait times we have to endure.

Why do we wait? What do we wait for? Does the end always justify the means?

I find myself getting restless. I’m antsy with the everyday. Walk to work, sit, stand up, sit, stand up, walk home. Repeat. I obviously do more than basic calisthenics each day, but at what point can I really begin to parse apart what’s meaningful and what isn’t? The anticipation comes with looking too far ahead. Where will I be 4 months from now? In 8? A year? I know some entries ago I said I’d make an effort to live in the now. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it’s difficult, especially when the now seems to be eking along in a race against molasses.

Why do they call it the waiting game? I don’t remember signing up to play. And yet, here I am, not-so-patiently playing along.

What do I get if I win?

Advertisements

On Writing

I’ve been on a real writing kick lately. They happen every so often, sometimes unexpectedly. Most times not. Meaning that usually some external pressure has forced me back into my writing corner. Sometimes that pressure is stress. Sometimes it’s insanity. This time it’s loneliness. For a month now I’ve been writing rapidly, furiously trying to fill a gaping emptiness. I’m hungry, but not in the way that can be satiated by food. It’s the kind of hunger that gnaws at my creative capacity. I yearn to write something…groundbreaking…profound…perfect…I. don’t. know. I can’t describe what I’m trying to achieve, but I’ll know it when I write it. And so far, nothing.

But that got me thinking. I mean really thinking. About my writing. I’m afraid. Fear is what’s keeping me from reaching that invisible goal. It’s like this fear of creating something so deep that it’ll drag me in with it. So immense that it’d be out of my control. So powerful that people halfway around the world will say, I felt that. But that’s a little self-righteous, isn’t it? To think I could even write something like that. It’s like being afraid of a fire-breathing dragon you aren’t even sure actually exists. You’ve only ever seen smoke.

I had this conversation before with my mentor, when I was still in the early stages of putting together my thesis proposal. He’d just finished ripping my ideas apart, limb from limb. He might as well have torn up the actual paper because I knew I’d hit a dead end. I knew it before I even entered his office, with my half-hearted thoughts scrunched up into 6 pages in my hand. Then he looked me right in the eye and asked me what was I afraid of. I didn’t have an answer. He then told me he could feel that my writing was coming up onto the edge of something, but backed away before it ever got there. He told me he knows if I can get out of my own way, something good will come of it. His parting words to me were, What do YOU want to write? Write it.

Two years later and I’m still trying to figure it out.

a cup of tea

I drink hot tea every morning with breakfast. Even though it’s 80 degrees plus with a heavy humidity outside. Even though what I would really like is a tall glass of milk. Or ice water. Even though some days I want coffee instead. Or nothing at all. Regardless, I have a cup of hot tea every morning. I heard that drinking hot beverages after meals aids in digestion. I don’t do it for my health. It seems once a pattern of life has been established here, it’s difficult to break it without breaking face in the process. It may seem like a small, insignificant gesture of habit, but even that has its implications. That’s okay. I like tea. It envelops me like a hug, warms my insides, and brings me back to places I’d thought I’d forgotten. So many secrets are divulged over tea, so many dialogues had. The leaves tell stories of a past time, stirring up old laughs and long nights. They tell the stories that have not yet been written, too. Of the future just beyond the horizon. Sometimes when I feel like I’m losing my grip on this reality; when there’s no one to hold onto or to hold me, a cup of tea gives me a moment to latch onto. One sip and suddenly I’m tethered. It comes from the earth, and so I, too, am bound to it.

Pressing Words, a.k.a. WordPressing

A friend once told me that if you go a night without a sufficient amount of sleep, it takes 3x as long to catch up on it. I don’t know if it’s true, but it would explain why I spent just about the whole day sleeping, and why I am up now at 3AM writing. Well, I’m not entirely sure that my day’s sloth-like activity really serves to explain my current alertness. This is after all the hour of my most active thoughts. I think by nature, I’m meant for nocturnal productivity.

Leaving Monterey was bittersweet. I felt like I should’ve been sadder than I was. It scares me how easy it was to leave a place that I called home, even if temporarily. I will miss the people. Against my expectations, I met some of the most incredible people in that place that I will ever have the pleasure to have known. And even though the time between now and when I will see most of them again is indefinite, I don’t feel all that distant. I think constant mobility can do that to a person. Monterey’s a transient community, largely made up of tourists, travelers, students, nomads, military personnel, and the like. And I, like so many others, was merely passing through. I had one hell of a send-off though. There was a bonfire, good food, good beer, wishes on flying lanterns, a po-po bust, music, dancing, and great company. I couldn’t have asked for more. Still though, it’s bizarre to me how untethered I feel. Maybe the finality of it all hasn’t really sunk in yet? Or perhaps this chapter is still open.

I’m making the transition to WordPress (in case this post wasn’t blatant enough). I’m still trying to wrap my head around the ridiculous amount of customizable options. I’m crippled by choices…as well as the lack of sufficient coding knowledge. I expect this blog to improve as my computer literacy does, at however slow a pace that is. If anyone wants to offer any tips or help, I’m open to tutelage and/or suggestions. Bear with me as I figure out how to navigate this site’s complexity. Sorry Tumblr, but it was time to move on. It’s nothing personal.

I’m also in the process of creating a Weebly strictly for my Peace Corps blog. I know I’m probably complicating things for myself as the point of this WordPress was to begin to consolidate my works. However, I think it’s best I separate PC from this as the Weebly will serve as a component of one of my deliverables for my DPMI+ work, and I prefer that personal and academic don’t entangle themselves. So stay tuned for the publishing of that blog.